


Legacy

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Community: acd_holmesfest, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Adventure of the Mysterious Ford concerns more than one legacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tripleransom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripleransom/gifts).



> Written for tripleransom as part of the acd_holmesfest exchange on LiveJournal.

  
  
  


 

If the chronicles of the remarkable doings of my utterly rationally-minded friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, occasionally touch upon the mysterious and unexplained, it cannot be helped. Although Holmes decries all that is superstitious, being a fully devoted student of science, the very nature of his work automatically exposes him to the full range of human beliefs, and humans often believe in powers beyond themselves. Tragedies in particular bring out the primitive in mankind, leading to ‘explanations’ of ghosts, malevolent forces, and curses. Too often the logical explanation is discarded in favour of the supernatural.

And yet there is a grain of truth in the persistence of superstition. Even Holmes admits that there are things in the world that we cannot yet explain through science. I, in my travels throughout the world, have seen happenings both malevolent and beneficial that I am hard-pressed to believe as anything other than otherworldly. Holmes himself occasionally seems to fall into the latter category, although he would never admit it, and indeed would mock me heartily if I were ever foolish enough to tell him so. But I have personally witnessed feats from my friend that bordered on magical, a bright power for good that strikes back against the forces of darkness.

One such event took place during a case I refer to in my notes as the Adventure of the Mysterious Ford. It involved the disappearance of Robert Dermott, Lord Belfair’s only son and heir. The young man had failed to return from a two-week visit to his mother’s people in the south of England. He was last seen in company with his servants driving through the village near his father’s estate, a mere hour’s journey from his home. The young man took it into his head to order his carriage and servants on, but disembarked himself in order to walk the much shorter, much more rugged yet scenic route to his home. He had walked that path perhaps thousands of times before in his life, and yet he failed to arrive at his destination that night. A massive search was launched, without success. The young man’s disappearance might have been chalked up to tragic accident, except that the very day he vanished, a ghostly washer-woman was reportedly seen at the ford on that rustic path between the village and Lord Belfair’s estate. When the lord himself saw the spectre three days after his son failed to return, he did not fall prey to superstition or lose himself in ruminations about the legends of that figure that ran in his family. Instead, he sent for Holmes. I accompanied my friend, and unexpectedly found myself involved in more than one matter of legacy.

 

*****

 

I stared at the unexpected obstacle in front of me, so utterly taken by surprise that I found myself momentarily unable to move, speak, or do anything but attempt to look calm while unwanted memories washed over my conscious mind, threatening to drag me under.

“Watson?” Holmes looked down at me from his lofty seat, impatient to be on our way to the site of the mysterious appearances that might factor into the matter of Lord Belfair’s missing heir. A tiny frown creased his brow as he took in my stance, my expression, and doubtless a hundred other clues to a matter that I would far rather have kept concealed from the rest of the world, and perhaps from him more than any other. “You can ride.”

It was a statement, of course, not a question. How he had deduced that I indeed knew how to ride was immaterial at the moment. He simply knew, and he was not wrong. I had learned as a youth and been fairly proficient even before my time in Her Majesty’s Army Medical Department. Being attached to various regiments included the practical necessity of first catching up to and then keeping up with them, including riding all manner of beasts. In my time, I had ridden mules, donkeys, a camel, and an elephant (albeit only as a passenger on the latter; to this day, I have no idea how the mahout actually managed his beast), not to mention just about every manner of horseflesh, from prime goer to broken-down nag.

The obstacle remained. Approximately fifteen and a half hands of bright chestnut mare who gazed at me with a mild brown eye as the stable-boy held the bridle. She looked to be a sweet creature, with excellent conformation and lines. Hardly a surprise, given Holmes’ client’s well-known love of horses. Lord Belfair’s stables were legendary.

“Yes, I can ride,” I answered mechanically. It was with equally automaton-like precision that I accepted the reins from the young groom and stepped up onto the mounting-block. I felt the warmth of the horse through the thin leather of my gloves as I placed one hand on her withers and the other flat on the back of the saddle. I slid my left foot into the stirrup and stepped up. My right leg swung automatically over the mare’s back. I settled in the saddle, and my right foot came to rest in its stirrup without any instruction from my mind. It was all reflex, muscle memory, as I found my seat and the groom let go of his grip on the bridle. The mare sidled experimentally, a gentle test. I brought her under control with the barest touch. She had a soft mouth, I noted distantly, and was very responsive to the slightest pressure of rein, leg, or heel. I kept my mind strictly focused on such trivial matters as I looked across to Holmes. “I’m ready.”

Holmes gazed at me a moment longer, that tiny frown still marring the skin between his brows. Then he visibly shifted mental focus, turning his attention to the case at hand as he brought his head around to address the head gamekeeper. “Is there more than one route to the spot of these supposed ghostly washer-woman sightings?”

The grizzle-haired servant looked towards his lord once, nervously, before answering my friend. “There’s plenty of ways to the ford, sir, but only one approach on either side of the stream.”

“The banks are quite steep on both sides of the crossing, and the ford is the only place for miles where the Ido broadens and slows enough to be crossed safely,” Lord Belfair added impatiently. The man looked every inch the irascible hill-lord, middle-aged but strong and tall in his saddle. He was impeccably dressed in sober country tweeds and overcoat, but I could just as easily picture him in ancient leathers and linen. He sat astride a magnificent bay that looked as proud and impatient as he. “We’ve many hours of light yet, but the weather is changing. If you wish to see the place for yourself, Mr Holmes, we must be on our way.”

Holmes nodded. “Lead the way.”

The lord and his servant lost no time in doing so. They urged their horses into a trot as soon as we were out of the courtyard. Holmes did the same. I had never seen my friend ride before, but it was clear at once that he was a master of this as he was of nearly everything he turned his attention to. He had an excellent seat, balancing and moving in harmony with his horse as he urged it forward to draw even with Lord Belfair and his servant.

It took very little encouragement on my part to get my mare to follow suit. She bounded forward, full of energy, happy to be out in the company of her friends. My mare was light on her feet, a dancer of a horse, not a plodder. I did my best to match her grace, but I knew I made a poor showing. I tried to keep my balance, match her rhythm, but my mind kept wandering, distracting me, and I found myself lurching uncontrollably. One leg felt curiously numb, weaker than the other. My shoulder ached. I told myself that my leg was merely a reminder that I needed more exercise, just as my shoulder was a sign of the coming change in the weather, but I knew that I lied.

I had not been astride a horse since Murray heaved my broken, bleeding body across the back of a pack animal at Maiwand.

That had not been riding. That had been clinging on with every ounce of my fading strength, a helpless, semi-conscious burden as my faithful orderly miraculously led us both to safety.

That had nothing to do with this. Or so I told myself, repeatedly, fighting back memories and the remembered feelings of that terrible march.

“Come on, Watson!” Holmes’ cry was impatient, yet full of the same enthusiasm I sensed from my mare. Both were fit creatures in their prime, out in their element, doing what they were born and bred to do.

I swallowed and continued to try and concentrate my mind and body on the task at hand. “Right behind you, Holmes.”

 

*****

 

Despite Lord Belfair’s warning words about the weather, it was still dry when we arrived, and Holmes found much to interest him at the ford. He surveyed the place from the back of his horse, then dismounted and walked all over, sometimes stooping down with his glass or crouching and bending over until his nose nearly touched the ground. Every so often he would make soft sounds of interest or encouragement to himself, as he often did when fully engaged in a search. He even waded out into the ford itself, carefully picking his way among the tumbled stones and gravel of the shallow stream-bed until something seized his attention. He stared quite fixedly at something in the stream, but despite my efforts, I could see nothing unusual about that particular part of the ford. Judging by their restless behaviour, neither could Lord Belfair or the gamekeeper.

By the time Holmes was done investigating the scene, the skies had darkened dramatically. We had no sooner turned back for the manor than it started to rain, a steady, cold downpour that found every bit of exposed skin and turned our coats and hats into leaden, sodden masses. The footing grew treacherous for the horses, forcing us to hold them to a walk far more frequently than we had on the outward journey. Miserable conditions always make a journey seem longer, but I truly do believe that it took us almost twice as long to return as it had to ride out. The difficulty only stirred up more unwelcome memories of another, more arduous horseback journey. Grimly, I forced myself to pay strict attention to guiding my mount and the mechanics of riding, and to disregard anything else.

Had I not been so distracted, I might have realized sooner that there were consequences of my not having ridden a horse in several years. Real consequences, and not just the sudden surfacing of memories I wished to avoid. As it was, I had been so resolutely ignoring the remembered pain in my leg and shoulder that I failed to notice when the phantom aches were joined by very real twinges from long-disused riding muscles, now overtaxed. Consequently, I was as surprised as anyone else when I dismounted in the manor courtyard and nearly fell. I half-stumbled into the mare’s shoulder as my legs wobbled, seeming as weak as water. The mare remained as good-natured as ever, standing steady even as my face mashed up against her soaked coat. Briefly, the smell of wet horse surrounded my senses as I fought for balance. I could not entirely stifle a groan.

“Watson!” Familiar hands seized my shoulders and steadied me. I straightened with an effort and found Holmes’ concerned face inches from mine. His hat had vanished somewhere, and his dark hair was plastered against his skull by the rain.

“Is he unwell?” Lord Belfair strode towards us, his movements free and easy, but his face a thundercloud of disapproval. Behind him, I saw stable-boys scurrying about, one taking charge of Holmes’ mount, while another led Lord Belfair’s horse to the stables in company with the gamekeeper, who led his own gelding into its welcoming shelter.

Embarrassment only added to my woes, but I managed to find my voice. “Sorry,” I gasped. “I am well enough, or will be in a moment. It’s merely that it has been quite some time since I last had a chance to ride.”

Holmes bit his lip. “You haven’t ridden since you returned from Afghanistan,” he murmured. Once again it was a statement, not a question. “I should have realised.”

“Why should you?” I retorted with an attempt at humour. I felt strength returning to my legs and stood a little more firmly, determined to brave it out. “I didn’t, and I had far more cause to know how much I have recovered – or haven’t.”

Holmes did not appear convinced by my attempt at bravado. “Is it just your leg, or your shoulder too?”

“Afghanistan.” Lord Belfair pinned me with his gaze before I could muster an answer, a strange expression on his face. “You served there?”

“Yes. I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and then the Berkshires.”

“Foreign service often takes a brutal toll.” The proud lord’s face softened further, and I realized he was looking at me with a gruff sort of sympathy. Not pity, which would have been abhorrent, but sympathetic understanding. “I was lucky enough to escape relatively unscathed, and yet I returned home in such poor condition it was months before I could ride even half a mile, much less the distance we’ve covered today.” He frowned, but this time I saw no displeasure or irritation in the gesture, just thought. “Would a hot bath help? I can order the servants to prepare one for you.”

I cautiously took a step away from the horse. My legs ached, but held me, and Holmes’ supporting hands dropped away. “Thank you, but I believe a change into dry clothes will be enough.”

“Very well, but I’ll have the servants put extra water on, just in case you change your mind. And I’ll send up some horse liniment.” My startlement must have shown on my face, for Lord Belfair gave me a slight smile. “It’s my own recipe, and it’s as good for muscle aches on humans as it is on my horses.”

“I did not know that you had spent time abroad,” Holmes said to him. My friend appeared only casually interested on the surface, but I knew him well enough to recognize that he was once again engaged on the case. He made his way to Lord Belfair’s side, and the two quickly disappeared indoors.

I gave my faithful mare one last gentle pat on the shoulder, a sincere if poor reward for her steady, faithful service that day. More to the purpose, I asked the impatiently-waiting stable-boy standing by her head to give her a careful rub-down and an extra treat, if it was allowed. The grin he gave me when I handed him a shilling reassured me that at the very least, my gesture eased his resentment at having had to stand all this time in the rain. He went off like a shot, the mare ambling in his wake, and I made my slow way into the manor house. Despite my every effort, I could not keep from limping.

 

*****

 

We stayed that night as guests of Lord Belfair, as planned. There were no suitable accommodations in the local village, and Lord Belfair’s estate was too remote to make a night train back to London feasible. Thankfully this meant that I had a dry set of clothes to change into after our drenching. Less welcome was the need to remain alert and engaged while Holmes continued his investigations, for I still ached in many places. Worse, I felt unsettled in my mind. But Holmes wanted my company, to take notes and to help smooth over conversations, and so I did my best. My friend had already asked questions of Lord Belfair and the principal staff before our trip to the ford, but there were many more people he wished to speak to before drawing any conclusions. Most of his questions were naturally about Robert and the legend of the ghostly washer-woman, but additional enquiries suggested to me that Holmes was following some theory of his own about the disappearance, some idea that remained hidden to my eyes.

We spoke to his tutor, still in residence although Robert was due to start at Oxford in a month’s time. I got the impression that Dr Litton did not find Robert an entirely satisfactory pupil in terms of scholarly ability, but there was no mistaking the man’s affection for his mischievous, trick-playing charge, or his distress at his disappearance.

Robert’s elder sister, Elizabeth, was much more reserved with us, but she answered Holmes’ questions readily enough. Her face remained serene, but even I could see the way her hands trembled when she spoke her brother’s name, and the sheen of moisture in her dark eyes.

By the time we were summoned to dinner, I knew very little more of import than I had done at the start. Holmes, however, had a sharp gleam of excitement in his eye, and the rapidity with which he strode towards the dining-room told me that he was keen upon the track. I followed as quickly as I could, cursing the lingering soreness from the ride. Left to my own devices, I would have far preferred a quiet supper in my room, with my back to the fire to absorb its heat and a good book to distract my thoughts. And for all the use I was at the dining-table, I might as well have retired. Holmes carried the conversation, coaxing our host into sharing his memories not only of his son, but of his own life here on the estate, what it had been like growing up here as a boy. Lord Belfair clearly had a deep love for the place, although he had not originally expected to inherit. He was a second son, and as such had gone into the Army as an officer with the understanding that he would make it his career. The death of his older brother from tetanus changed his plans and brought him home. I personally thought he sounded happy for the exchange, but perhaps that was in deference to me and the less-than-happy outcome of my own military career. He spoke briefly but fondly of his late wife, who had given him his two living children, and perished trying to bring a third, stillborn child into the world. He appeared to have devoted his life and energies to his estate, his horses, and his children, in that order.

All of which information might have some utility for Holmes, but told me nothing. Nor could it distract me from the growing stiffness in my limbs. The dining-room chairs were hard, and the air in the room was chilly despite the generous fires in the fireplaces at both ends of the room. By the time the meal was over, I entertained serious doubts about my ability to walk back to my room without limping like an old man. Not only did my legs and posterior ache, but my lower back throbbed with pain.

“Thank you, but no, at least for my part,” I told Lord Belfair when he suggested that we all adjourn to the billiard-room. I trusted that he made the offer from ingrained politeness and tradition, and not from an actual desire to play, for there was no way I could manage it, and I did not want to cause offense with my refusal. I gritted my teeth and stood with an effort I hoped was not apparent to anyone else. “I’m still somewhat tired from this afternoon.”

Holmes rose gracefully from his chair. “I, on the other hand, am feeling quite fresh. It must be your country air. I would be delighted to join you for a game.” He barely glanced in my direction, intent on whatever ulterior objective he had in mind in accepting the proposed game. “Good night, Watson.”

Lord Belfair also wished me a good evening, and then the two strode out of the room, leaving me alone. I was grateful not to have witnesses as I staggered painfully along to the stairs that led up to my chamber.

Pain is a strange thing. I am unfortunately far too well acquainted with it, both personally and professionally. I was unsurprised to find myself clammy with sweat by the time I gained the sanctuary of my room, but I did not expect the fine tremors and stiff hands that made my medical bag difficult to open. I had already taken one mild pain reducer when I returned from my ride, but whatever beneficial effects it might have provided had clearly worn off. I briefly contemplated treating myself with something more powerful, but dismissed the idea. Holmes was on a case. I might be needed.

An idle hope more than any kind of likelihood. The reality of my relative uselessness was as bitter to my mind as the medicine was to my tongue. I forced myself to swallow all the same, and then prepared myself for bed. The sheets were cold, and I shivered once as I turned down the bedside lamp and curled up beneath the blankets. Light from the fireplace danced in patterns across the ceiling. I watched them and hoped for sleep, a relief from pain, from thought.

 

*****

 

_Shouts._

_Screams._

_Demonic howls, louder than the gunfire that thunders fitfully, ever lessening._

_Pain, and a curious spreading numbness, then agony. Dirt in my face, grit in my moustache, on my tongue._

_Still more pain, and movement, and light. A well-known voice shouting my name. “I’ve got you, sir!”_

_More motion, a dreadful heaving. A jolting, shifting mass beneath me, lathered brown coat rapidly turning bright scarlet with blood. My blood._

_The voice again, cracking with strain and terror. “Hang on, sir! You have to hang on, or by God I’ll find a way to tie you on!”_

_The Ghazi cries grow louder, tasting victory._

 

Another, sharper pain, and I bolted up with a gasp. My throat felt rough, as if I’d been shouting. I blinked, struggling to see in the faint light. Memories and shadows tangled together, and I shuddered, uncertain of where I was or what might be around me: the dark, stony plains of Afghanistan and Ghazis lurking just out of sight seemed just as likely as age-blackened furniture and tangled bedclothes.

I felt a touch on my good shoulder, and tried to turn to face the danger, but my muscles seized, and I pitched over.

Strong arms caught me, and my face fell against a warm linen-covered chest. A strong smell of tobacco, with undertones of pomade, bay rum soap, and damp wool pervaded my senses, their calming familiarity overwhelming the remembered odours of horse-sweat, blood, rifle-smoke, and fear. I lay there, shivering, unable to move for long moments while the past and the present warred within my mind, echoing between remembered agony and current cramping pain. At last I recovered myself enough to realize that I was sitting in a bed, half-sprawled over, and that the only thing keeping me from falling out of it was…

“Holmes!” I made an effort to wrench myself upright, but Holmes’ arms merely tightened around me.

“Easy, Watson.” His voice sounded deeper with my head tilted against his chest. “You’ve been dreaming.”

He meant that I’d been having nightmares, which was true enough. They had plagued me ever since Afghanistan, and although they had lessened in frequency over time, I had caused more than one alarm at Baker Street with my nocturnal terrors. This wasn’t Baker Street, however; the bed was too wide, the room too large, and what light there was came from a coal fire, not gas. More sense returned, and I remembered that I was in one of Lord Belfair’s guest-rooms. I tried again to right myself, and this time Holmes helped me. I wound up sitting with my back braced against the headboard, while Holmes perched on the side of the bed, one hand still resting on my arm, gently but ready to support me further if there was need. The fire had died down to little more than glowing embers in the grate, but had not burned itself out completely, so I had perhaps been asleep for a few hours, no more. Holmes was wearing a dressing-gown over his shirtsleeves and trousers, but from the sleek state of his hair – and the extremely strong smell of pipe-smoke – I judged that he had not yet retired to bed. At least I had not roused him from what little sleep he permitted himself on cases. “I beg your pardon.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Holmes countered at once.

“Except for alarming you, and in all likelihood shouting loudly enough to raise half the house.”

“No, no, my dear fellow. What little noise you made could not have been heard by anyone but myself.”

I frowned, confused once again. Holmes’ room was across the hall from my own. And I well knew the amount of clamour required to rouse him from contemplation of a case. “But I must have cried out.”

Uncharacteristically, Holmes hesitated briefly before answering. “It is possible that my room door was ajar. I did not close it securely when I retired for the evening.”

Realisation flashed over me, and I flushed. Holmes had not accidentally left his door open. He had done so on purpose, in anticipation that I might experience difficulties sleeping after the events of the day. It was at once extremely kind of him, to have deduced that I might have a nightmare and take steps to prevent me from the embarrassment of disturbing others, and also extremely mortifying to realise that he thought I needed minding like an unruly child. “Holmes, I…”

He cut me off before I could utter another word. “Watson, I assume that you will not be returning to sleep anytime soon?”

“It isn’t likely,” I replied with some understatement. I rarely found slumber a second time after being awakened by one of my night terrors, even without the complication of real muscle soreness to accompany the shooting phantom pains at the site of my old injuries.

“Then would you do me the favour of listening to the facts of the case? As I have told you before, such a recitation often helps me clarify matters in my own mind.”

I gladly seized on the opportunity for distraction. “Assuredly. Just let me put on a dressing gown and build up the fire, and…”

“No need. Stay where you are; the night air is brisk, and these rooms are unfortunately draughty. I’ll take care of the fire.” Holmes sprang up from the bed and suited actions to words. He added a generous amount of coal from the bucket near the fireplace. I expected him to move a chair next to the bed, but in his typical Bohemian fashion, Holmes simply re-joined me on the bed itself. He slipped his legs underneath the topmost blanket and sat up next to me, cross-legged in Indian fashion, close enough that I could feel his warmth through the layers of his clothes. “Now then. I have delved into the family tree and lines of inheritance. The estate is not entailed, so after Robert, his sister Elizabeth is the next heir. Should she fail to marry or produce heirs, the next heirs in line are a second cousin, who is a confirmed bachelor who made his fortune with the East India Company, and currently resides in that country; and a clergyman who is the retired bishop of Trulo…”

Holmes went on, detailing relationships at first, and then delving into the academic career and preferred interests of the missing son. At some point, my eyes grew heavy, my mind wandered, and my friend’s voice faded into a soft, pleasing hum.

When I next opened my eyes, I was snuggled down beneath the blankets, curled up as warm and contented as a child, and almost entirely pain-free. The fire was once again but a few glowing spots on the grate, but faint light through the windows showed that dawn was not far off. The room was empty of anyone save for myself, but when I stretched out a hand to touch the pillow next to mine, I thought I detected the faintest remnant of lingering warmth, like a ghost.

 

*****

 

The conclusion of the case proved happier, and more satisfying, than I would have dared hope given its dismal beginning. In a remarkable series of deductions, Holmes not only managed to re-create and demonstrate the magician’s trick that produced the appearance of the washer-woman at the ford, but successfully traced the miscreants to York. Thanks to his strategically-timed wires to the local police, the travelling players who had performed the trick were caught, and through them, we located the missing young man. Young and naïve, he had fallen prey to a pretty face and a clever scheme that might well have resulted in his ransom or murder had he not been found in time. Happily he was returned to his family relatively unharmed, and hopefully forever wiser for his experience.

Lord Belfair called my friend a miracle-worker, which Holmes demurred with his usual quiet scorn for anything that touches on the magical or supernatural. But I can understand Lord Belfair’s characterization, for I too felt that I was witness to a minor miracle during the course of this case. For on the morning where Holmes arranged and performed his demonstration, he assumed that I would remain behind rather than ride again. I insisted otherwise, although I dreaded the likely toll the experience would take upon me. Much to my own astonishment, I took my place astride the same friendly mare with – well, I cannot call it perfect ease, for I was still somewhat stiff from the initial foray – but with none of the mental tension and related stresses under which I had previously suffered. I rode about as well as could be expected, and experienced no ill-effects afterwards beyond a slightly aggravated case of saddle-soreness. Nor have I had any trouble with horses since that day.

It is a small gift, the ability to ride, at least in my current life. I do not have many opportunities to indulge in it. But the liberty of knowing I can do so – and the freedom from the nightmarish memories, which no longer afflict me to the same degree that they did – well, that is as close to magic as I think I shall ever come.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted October 20th, 2013


End file.
